his lighter is a gun

Things I didn’t know I needed till I thought of them

Constantine in Legends of Tomorrow!

Sara would know who he is because he brought her soul back, so there’s that connection. They can like find him because he was doing a spell and he messed up and got sent back in time and that caused an anomaly. But they also go up against magic person in the past and they need his help!

Also he flirts with Mick the entire time. Because Constantine could lose his lighter and Mick would use his gun to light his cigarette and then Constantine falls head over heels. Bisexuality confirmed!


Lips of fire
Burn my neck
I feel it after they’re gone
I feel his fingertips
Slipping into my skin
And they’re covering the scars
But they’re not gone
His cigarette smoke was clouding up my mind
And you cleared it all
Replaced with darkness
Its too familiar here
But you know I love the thrill
Its gone too fast
His arms were lighter than ocean waves
High tide
We’re running through the night
No one can find us here
Streetlights know my name now
And they lure me in
With nothing but cold lips
I’ll never forget the feeling of his fingertips
He was taking me down
And I’ll ruin him
And he knew that
Dressed in black

The darkest baby face
His hands were lighter than the waves

His hands are guns
I’ll never heal
So would you make me feel at home
And take a drag of darkness
Hand it over
I’ll inhale it all
Until the cherry on his cigarette is gone
In the middle of the night
I feel his breath on my neck
He never left
I die alongside the soul of a stranger
Laced in my fingers
Gunfire and empty bottles
They bring back too much
The fire in his heart is gone
And its made its way into my throat
With every shot of whiskey
And every mouthful of smoke
I told him that I’d follow him wherever he’d go
But it got too dark for me
I see the light in everything
Besides the lines on the bathroom sink
Cocaine fiends
I know that its all that I can be
A fool

The saddest baby face
His hands were lighter than midnight

I’m a breathing hurricane
I see the storm on the horizon
But its too far from here
The lightning strikes
Cheap beer
It all started with the tip of his tongue
Slipping through his teeth
I listen to the way he breathes
Its unsteady
Stars in his eyes
Night time in his smile
I’ll be his girl
Swimming through the springtime
And living under streetlights
And I’ll never feel this again
With his fingertips dripping down my spine
It could be the start of a storm
And the first lightning strike
In the dry air
Or just a glitch and a flaw in the system
But I feel him mending my scars
Or covering them up
An illusionistic sound
A shot in the dark
His lips are made of fire
And they’re burning my neck
Even when they’re gone

Through Hell With A Smile || (Zombie AU)

“…make me this, bring me up, bring me down, playing sweet, make me move like a freak..”

Dust and concrete. A dreary scenery, dry and cold and void of hope. In another light, it would have been remarkable what a couple of years of civilizations’ absence could do to a city like this. If he had been walking down the deserted road over there, the buttery sweet scent of the bakery on the left would have seduced him, while busy men wearing ties and women in pencil skirts would have rushed past him, ignoring the chocolate cakes and vanilla cookies altogether. The high office building right on the other side would have spilled them around noon, eager to grab a quick lunch and the news of the day all in twenty minutes before their desk and duty called them back again. Cars probably would have honked when one of them was too impatient to wait for a green light, kids would have bugged their mothers about fresh donuts and some mildly entertaining story of their day in school. Newspapers would have been sold at every second corner, while colours and lights and noises flashed and echoed into a headache-worthy symphony of bustling city life.

But that would have been if he had walked these streets a few years ago, which he had not. Nowadays, no one simply walked any kind of streets anymore if they could help it. The wonderful, drowsy order of every day life had taken the beauty of the city with it, and it would not return. Dust and concrete. That was what was left.

It had not been long enough to let nature reach out for this place again, yet too long to leave much of a trace of hope for those who had been left behind to witness it. The buildings stood like the forgotten, crumbling monuments of mankind against the grey sky, sad and lonely. Some of them carried traces of what had been humanity’s last resort before all of it had crashed. Broken windows, crumbling walls, missing rooftops and skyscrapers whose crowns had been ripped off like they were sticks of wood instead. Some of them had had their shells cracked by bombs and other radical means of destruction, or defense. A little further ahead he could see a house whose still somewhat shiny steel skeleton framed the ruins of its intestines like a piece of morbid, modern art. One of those skulptures made of rusty metal junk, a leaking watering can and an ugly rainboot that looked like they belonged in the trash rather than a museum. It had always been difficult for him to find the artistic statement in those, and now this city was no different. For shame. Once, he had loved cities more than any other playground.

“..some guys from school had a band and we tried real hard, Jimmy quit and Joey got married, shoulda known we’d never get far..”

The song he was singing was no song, and he did not actually sing it. As he pressed into the shadows of the corpse of a once exquisite Mercedes Benz, his lips kept on moving. He muttered almost without a voice, and certainly without mind. It had become a habit too hard to shake yet too risky not to be muted, at least. In the woods, he had never had to worry about speaking too loud, except when on a hunt. This place was different though, and if he ever wanted to see the end of it, he had to know how to keep himself quiet. Still his lips performed the movement. It made him nervous not to recite these lyrics. There were no thoughts on his mind worth discussing, and he needed the stimulation. Without it, surely, he would have gone insane long ago. Some would argue that he already was, but so far he cared little for the judgement of others. If only there had been someone around capable of judging him! It would have sufficed. It would have eased his suffering.

In fact, there was no other reason than this for him to be here. After rummaging in the little village some miles from his resting place - it had never been his home, no, his home was gone and most likely dead and he would spill no more tears for it anymore - just another time, in search of anything useful, a particulary nostalgic radio had fallen into his hands. The survival rate of loaded batteries had been one of Asmodeus’ more positive finds after electricity had given out. God knew what had driven him to give it a try. What little spark of hope, or maybe the memory of some horror movie he had watched long ago, had made him put it up and skim the frequencies. God also knew how his heart hadn’t quit with the big bump delivered when, for real, he had heard somebody talk. In the beginning, the meaning of the words had been so far from him, the sheer joy of hearing a different voice than his own performing whole sentences seering through him so intensely his knees had almost given out.

However, when his first shock had settled in his bones, which had still been quivering, yet had kept him upright, Asmodeus had been able to actually understand just what they were talking about. One hour later, he had already forgotten more than ninety percent of the message again. Only the important bits had stuck, and he had repeated the words in his head and with his mouth until his lips had dried out and his thoughts had been spinning. Base. Survivors. North Dakota. Minot. Calling Out. So simple. So clear. The journey promising to be so insanely difficult that his chances of survival would have been better if he had spent the winter out in the woods without a fire. Yet Asmodeus had known exactly what he was to do from there.

A desperate heart should not be underestimated. He had made it, against all odds. Mostly by motorcycle - a not so old thing he had freed from the grip of a dozen dirty, bloody hands and almost all the filth before sucking every last drop of oil and gas from any motorized vehicle around to fill the tank, and some extra. There had been no space or time to bring food or anything else. Just a bit of water, an extra canister of petrol, his clothes, four knives, two guns plus ammunition, and a lighter. That was all he took with him for the almost sixteen hundred miles of way. Anything else he needed he would have to find on the road, or off it. He had avoided bigger highways and cities, tried to keep himself near nature and off the once populated areas. It had been his hardest travel yet, and it had almost killed him twice. Starved and sunburned and with two hours of solid sleep within the last two weeks he had made it though. He was here. He had made it. How much time had passed between the message and his arrival was hard for him to tell. Even harder when a part of him began to fear that maybe, those people were dead by now as well, and he was now ducking and running and swallowing dust for nothing, and had been doing it all along for even less. Hope was such a vile thing.

“..Master of the house, doling out the charm, ready with a handshake and an open palm, tells a saucy tale, makes a little stir, customers appreciate a bon-viveur..”

A musical song. What play it was from, he wouldn’t have been able to tell anymore. Too many of them stuck in his head, all of them having rolled from his tongue a hundred times by now. Sometimes, he even whispered them in his sleeps, making himself wake up from it. Searching for the voice and lips next to him that should have been the cause. But there had never been any.

Asmodeus moved on. Summer was fading, and the mild breeze howling through dead buildings and empty streets felt good on his cracked lips. A few hot days were still to come though, and his only hope for them was to be as short as possible. Maybe rainy. That would have been so nice. When he scurried past another dark alley, he still held his gun clutched to his side, and a more or less light broken off piece of a metal pipe in his other hand. It was handier than most other weapons to keep the monsters at bay. Besides, he was running out of bullets. If he didn’t find a trace of the group he was searching for soon, he would be done for. Asmodeus doubted that the city had been cleansed of absolutely every creature that had once gone for a walk with the dog in the local park around. He had no idea where to go, and even less of where to start his search. The Minot Air Force Base that had been mentioned had to be around somewhere.

If only he had still possessed the energy to cling to that thought for a little longer. The man could feel his heart pumping like crazy in these unfamiliar streets, expecting bad around the next corner and worse within the alley that followed. He switched between running and crouching, pressing against walls and hunching within shadows. Every rustle of wind or creaking of an half open door shot him back into fight or flight mode, no matter how tired he felt. He wanted to cry and lean against a wall and wait for who or whatever to find him instead, for how long had he been moving about like this in this godforsaken place by now? At least three days. It might have been three weeks for all his body cared though. There was no real difference. Whenever he had heard heavy footsteps or quiet growling he had picked up pace towards the other direction, never looking back. Not daring to look back once.

“…be teachers, be politicians, be preachers, be believers, be leaders, be astronauts, be champions, be truth seekers..”

But Asmodeus was tired now. Tired and hopelessly lost. He couldn’t shake the thought that he had only just passed the same crossroads as he had about a day before as well. And yet again, he could hear the rustling of heavy breathing coming from somewhere too close for his liking. The city was usually silent safe for the wind and them. Asmodeus had asked it again and again where he was, where he should go, had pleaded with her to give him any sort of sign, or at least a drop of water. She had never answered. Only now someone did, and suddenly Asmodeus would have taken silence over anything else every day. Nothing screamed out loneliness more than this did.

Because he was alone. He had been alone for so long. And soon, he knew, he would die just as alone, and no one ever would remember. Certainly not his killers. His grip of his blistered fingers around the pipe tightened and he began to run.

Cold As Ice

Description: After an accident, Dean and the reader find themselves stuck in the woods during a storm.

“We must’ve missed something,” you mutter, scrolling through the files you’ve pulled up on your laptop and scanning them for the hundredth time.

Dean groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand while his other stays on the Impala’s wheel, guiding her through the winding curves of the secluded forrest road. “Y/n, I’m telling you, this just isn’t our kind of job. We were at that cabin for hours and nothing strange happened. Time to call it.”

“I’m telling you Dean, something is weird about all of this,” you reply, the argument nearly identical to the ones you had three hours earlier. “Four people died in that cabin in the last week.”

“So there’s a serial killer,” he replies.

“Then how did the killer do it?” you shoot back. “How do you explain that their brains were completely scrambled but there wasn’t a scratch on them?”

“I don’t know, maybe he poisoned them.”

You shake your head. “No way. We examined those bodies and I’ve been over the autopsy reports at least a dozen times. No signs of poison, nothing out of the ordinary at all. Each victim’s brain was just fried.”

The wind is picking up outside now, buffeting against the sides of the car so strongly that Dean has to put both hands on the wheel just to keep the Impala on the road.

“This storm’s gonna be bad,” Dean mutters, turning up the speed on the windshield wipers. He eases his foot off the gas, slowing the car to make the drive a little less treacherous.

“Let’s go to the library tomorrow,” you continue, ignoring him. “Search the records. If nothing turns up then we’ll call it and head out.”

You watch Dean carefully, seeing the way he worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth, and then he sighs in relent. “Alright, fine. We’ll check it out.” You grin, settling back against the seat. Movement catches your eye and your gaze flicks to the rearview mirror.

And you scream.

“What the hell?” Dean shouts, swerving a little.

“She’s here! She’s in the car!” you scream, twisting in your seat while reaching inside your jacket for the salt you keep there for emergencies. You twist the cap off of the jar and toss the contents into the back, but the girl, the spirit just flickers out of sight.

“Drive faster,” you order. 

“Gee, you think?” Dean snaps.

He hammers the gas and the Impala lurches forward like a shot. As you drive, thin spidery tendrils of ice creep up on the windows, clouding your vision, lowering the interior’s temperature so that you can see your breath in front of your face.

Suddenly the Impala lurches to the left, two of the tires dropping off onto the shoulder of the road. Dean struggles to maintain control, twisting the wheel as far to the right as he can, but he’s losing the battle and the car drifts closer and closer to the drop off.

“I can’t hold it!” he shouts. “Get ready, we’re going off the road!”

As he says it he lets go of the wheel and throws his arm in front of you, trying to shield you in the only way he can. The Impala goes flying off the side of the road, shooting down the hill at gut wrenching speeds. Trees fly by on either side and your hands clench into fists, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. You’re picking up speed as you race down the slope and you note with terror that there’s a massive oak tree about a hundred yards ahead of you.


He grabs the wheel and jerks it to the right, sending the car swerving, spinning out of control, putting Dean between you and the trunk of the tree. For a heartbeat you think that his side will be impacted directly, but the car continues to turn.

You slam into the tree, the back door on the driver’s side hitting first, sending you flying forward into your seatbelt hard enough to leave bruises. The airbags explode and your face smacks into one, a blinding flash of white hot pain searing across your vision.

Everything goes black.


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anonymous asked:

Prompt Idea (Flash CW): The Rogues are a big family, so of course they get a little protective when they find out that one of their youngest (Hartley) is found out to be seeing Cisco romantically. Set in a universe where Season 2 Episode 17 never happened and Hartley ended up joining the rogues after his 2 debut episodes. (Because you asked for Prompts. Have a good day!)

The warehouse was in the outskirts of Central City, out of the way, more than a little rundown but surrounded by other warehouses just as run down.  A bit cliche, of course, but there was a reason for the trope - no one hangs around old warehouses.  

Which is why the door to theirs should not be being opened in the middle of the night.  Len glanced away from the blueprints of the Central City Modern Art Museum, listening to the faint metallic sounds of the door closing and then footsteps.  He turned off the lamp and stood, the ice gun already in his hand as he crept toward the door.

“It’s me, Snart.” Fucking Rathaway.  The kid could hear a cop coming from down the street but damn if it wasn’t annoying the rest of the time.  Still, saved the kid from getting a face full of ice.

Len rolled his eyes and flipped the lights back on… then paused. Then smirked.

Hartley, for lack of a better word, looked absolutely wrecked.  It looked like he had taken a punch to the right side of his face, his lip was cut, and his clothes were torn… if it weren’t for the fact his hair was messed up, his lips kiss swollen, and the marks on his neck that couldn’t be anything other than bites and hickeys, Len might have believed he was in a real fight.

“Shut up,” Hartley glowered up at him before he could speak.

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anonymous asked:

We've had a lot of morning headcanons for the Legends, but what about evening headcanons? What do they do to wind down or in the middle of the night when they can't sleep?

Ooooh I like this one, especially since I’m pretty sure most of the crew are insomniacs to some degree

Also, I’m going to approach this talking about nights when they weren’t on a mission and nobody is injured/unconscious/in the gulag and everyone can just settle down for bed in a fairly normal way. Okay, GO:

  • Kendra and Sara (who I will headcanon as roommates until the show clarifies the Waverider sleeping arrangements) both suffer from a lot of bad dreams and sleeplessness. They like to end their days with exhausting sparring sessions to tire themselves out, hoping they can fall asleep fast and not dream at all. 
  • On nights when that doesn’t work and they can’t sleep anyway, Kendra makes hot chocolate and they stay up chatting and Sara braids Kendra’s hair.
  • Since I’m 212% convinced Snart hates anyone seeing his upper body for some reason, he tends to wait until everyone has started retiring for the night before he takes a shower. After that he’ll prowl the ship a bit, surreptitiously tidying up things that have been bothering him all day but he doesn’t want to admit to fixing. 
    • (His night showering penchant is also a tremendous help in the morning, given that the Waverider obviously only has one bathroom and everything.)
  • Ray usually likes to work out in the evenings, shower, brew some coffee, and then head to the lab. He very politely says goodnight to everyone else on their way to bed and usually remembers that he’s also supposed to sleep somewhere between midnight and 2 AM. 
  • Rip likes a cup of tea before bed (or something stronger if it’s been a particularly trying day). Ideally he could relax a little in his study (or whatever that room is?) but he usually doesn’t get much peace and quiet because of who his shipmates are as people. He’s usually one of the first to go to bed.
  • Stein doesn’t go to bed as early as one would expect, as the token senior legend, but he does still like to get to bed pretty early, since he’s not a morning person at the best of times. Since I headcanon him as having accidentally scored the ship’s only single room, I imagine he shuts himself in shortly after dinner and reads for a while before he goes to sleep.
  • Jax likes to hang around the gym area. He enjoys a little light cardio himself (although he misses being able to jog), but also to keep an eye on Sara and Kendra. They’re fun to watch, sure, but he’s also always worried that one of them will go into homicide mode again.
  • After that he heads back to the kitchen for second dinner and a snack -the kid eats a lot. Then he likes to listen to music in his room until he falls asleep. 
  • Mick likes a drink or two before bed, which is deeply worrying to Rip since Mick also likes to fiddle with his hot gun and/or play with lighters in his downtime, and basically it’s all very flammable. Mick worries the shit out of Time Dad tbh. 
  • Generally Mick is also up later; he’s not an easy sleeper, and most nights he’ll just flagrantly abuse some sort of medication to put himself to sleep. If he’s awake on nights when Ray starts sleepwalking (Ray is 200% a sleepwalker) Jax (my headcanon for Ray’s roomie) will take advantage of the situation and have Mick forcibly carry Ray back to bed. Mick is mildly exasperated by the whole thing.

It took Sam 11 hours to get to Dean.

He was in the basement when the house collapsed but by some weird quirk of chance the debris fell mostly around him. He was hurt, bad enough, one leg broken through the skin, but not so bad that he couldn’t have crawled up, forced a way to the surface. Instead he fought further into the ground towards Dean’s voice, Dean who was shouting and calling without a break for Sam to leave, go, get out, goddammit Sam. 

It took Sam 10 hours to get close enough to see him, 10 hours shifting and bleeding and screaming, bruised broken leg dragging over rubble. When Sam got to him Dean was on his back, blood-trails streaking the dust caked thick on his face, and when he saw Sam he said ‘you bastard’ but he tipped his face up towards his brother and reached for his hand and when he died two hours later it was to the sound of Sam telling stories from their first years on the road. 

When he saw that Dean was gone Sam pulled a lighter out of his pants and set it beside Dean’s gun. A hunter’s funeral (no taking chances this time, no worlds left where they didn’t go together), just as soon as he finished telling Dean about the night they ganked a wendigo.